


Labyrinth

by Surnia_Ulula



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23200678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Surnia_Ulula/pseuds/Surnia_Ulula
Summary: The tall, slender, ivory skinned woman curled her spindly arms around her little baby. With the baby tucked close to her chest, she lowered her head, shielding them both with her long kinky black hair. Although she was young, a small patch was just beginning to whiten at her left hairlines roots. She cast her deep brown eyes into her baby’s own soft dark blue, she cast her soul, her love, her sympathy, her understanding, her kindness, everything she never got. Everything she knew her baby would never get. She knows.This is just me ranting about weird things at 3 o clock in the morning..so yeah. Wohoo.The pain of separation cuts deep.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Labyrinth

**Author's Note:**

> This is also my first post ever and the first time more than one other person has ever seen my writing.  
> Excited to finally be out here, if you peoples have any suggestions please feel free to comment!

The tall, slender, ivory skinned woman curled her spindly arms around her little baby. With the baby tucked close to her chest, she lowered her head, shielding them both with her long kinky black hair. Although she was young, a small patch was just beginning to whiten at her left hairlines roots. She cast her deep brown eyes into her baby’s own soft dark blue, she cast her soul, her love, her sympathy, her understanding, her kindness, everything she never got. Everything she knew her baby would never get. She knows.

She will be the only one to love her now, without her there was no one. There is a reason it doesn’t matter who “she” is. It works both ways, like a sands of time with two ravens balanced on its roots, roots or branches they’re always the same. Forever. She wishes this moment could last forever. It never does. Smiling as the small girl’s duckling like fuzz tickles her nose, she gives her little one a kiss. Breaking into a broad smile as her baby girl sighs, she brings her baby as close as she can, as if trying to meld their souls together. She would do anything to ease the pain her baby was about to feel, a pain the dark woman knows all too well.  
Slowly raising her head, she gently locks eyes with the ten aurors surrounding her with their wands drawn. There would be several dozen more outside, she knew. There was no safe escape. After sizing each and every one of them up, she realized they didn’t see the baby. Instantly, her mind snapped away, trying to come up with the most devious plan. What had the highest shock factor with the best possible chance of escape. The aurors must have seen the gleam in her eyes, as they tightened their wands and one stepped out of their ranks.  
He was a tall, dark man in a deep blue cloak. The same color of her baby's eyes, she noted as she was flushed with warmth even through the nerves. He was ordering her to surrender.  
It was for what she did to the young couple with the baby boy. It was before she had her own. Before she knew he was even there. She watched the auror before her. His name was Kingsley. They had gone to school together. She had gone to school with all of the young ones. She watched Kingsley with dead, heavily lidded eyes as he approached her like one would a sleeping lion, and the rest followed. She looked back down once more into her beautiful daughters soft, deep blue eyes. While holding her baby’s head, she stroked her ginger hair. Light ginger, like a strawberry. She knew exactly what cry would escape her lips whenever she let go. The little girl always cried the same when her mother left. She knew it would hurt more this time, it always aches but she knew this pain would outlive any other. She knew some of these aurors, her subconscious passively sifted through them all, hopes, dreams, fears, joys, what would make them scream in horror. She knew exactly what would make them all scream in horror. She knew what would guarantee her enough time to escape. She knew and she looked into her daughters big eyes and knew she could never hurt her. Never.  
They were a foot away when she leapt back into the wall behind her. Curled around her baby, she pressed herself sideways into the wall.  
The aurors, realizing her wand was nowhere to be seen, darted forward.  
Only to freeze in shock, all but one stared at her in disbelief as the saw the little bundle in her arms. She felt needles were poking at the block of ice her heart was. Needles scraped ice, a lukewarm hollow sound.  
In a flash, a big scruffy one eyed man leapt forward and ripped the tiny baby out of her mother's arms. She clung on tightly, desperately, as he dragged her off of the wall. The nine other aurors rushed forward, holding her down as the he backed up with the wailing baby. Hands with a vice like grip clamped her to the floor, her hands, her legs, her back, her head and neck, her hair was stepped on, tied down by their numbers. She could barely even watch as he walked out of the house with the only thing that ever loved her, needed her. The only thing she loves and needs. That’s when she felt those little burrowing needles pierced her, everywhere. They were everywhere. She could hear her daughter's cries fade. Hanging onto each and every whimper.  
That feeling you get, when one rips out your heart and pours acid in its place. That feeling you get when each and every organ is shredded with dirty, blunt, serrated claws. Cutting clean through you. eighteen hands holding her down. Holding her from her baby. She was burning, set ablaze by pure fear. A small prickle in her back, and something cold swept through her body.

In the last second of conscious sanity she had left in her, She wondered numbly if it was for the better or worse, knowing she couldn’t help her.  
I hurt because she knew she couldn’t. If she thought she could, it would only be a cruel joke for the both of them.  
Hope is ignorant, as is love.  
She couldn’t love her anymore, for her daughters sake and for her own.  
Is it selfish to need her? She asks herself. Is it selfish?

Her memories quiet as she is dragged from the house, bound so, so tightly. Bound by their chains. Bound by her cries. Everything goes numb, and inside she is fighting, she is reaching out with her mind, and soul, and every fiber of her being but on the outside she is merely dust. The shadow of a broken angel. Tears she wiped from her own eyes dry as the brittlest sun dried bones.

Awake and alone. It is dark. It is always dark. And while she sits there, rotting away in her cage, she thinks. Thinks of the poet. The young, spritely little thing that will trot along down. Thinks of the poet that will tell her story and imbue it with color, like a red sky is filled with dew, like the cobalt blue powder waiting to dye fluffy cloudlike wool sitting in its brown clay vase on a wooden table in a bright sunny field filled with wildflowers, the bright purple birds singing in the distance.  
It makes her angry. Furious. There is no color in this tale. There is no color in any of these tales. They are not hot or cold, old or young, they are not bright, not shiny, not even dull. They don’t glisten in the sunlight, like half dried blood dripping down one of a thousand corpses on a battlefield, where the tattered flag still sticks up above the torrent of light the crimson sun casts as it rises to kiss the night goodbye.

There are no such tales. They are empty. They are nothing. They are gone.

This is not beautiful.  
The tears that stream down her delicate face are just water and lysozyme. Her eyes are not swimming. They are just eyes. Eyes can’t swim. Don’t make yourself a fool. They are not empty or full. They are eyes. Just little delicate bits of jelly. They’re not pretty. Her pain isn’t pretty. She isn’t pretty. Nobody is pretty in this story. Nobody is good. Nobody is bad. There are no sides.  
Her delicate face is just a thin layer of meat and flesh threaded to a withered white skeleton. There is nothing delicate. Nothing is strong. We’re all just tiny fibers strung together. 

Bones are just bones. There is nothing more to it. Her mind is just a mind. There is no magic to this. There is no magic in these words. She is just meat. They are all just meat.  
All wrapped up in a pretty bow.  
And she is left as defeated as always. There will always be another poet. Always another poet to tell anothers story, a story they will never truly feel. The pain. The pure, pure grief can never properly flow through the fingertips of a mere messenger. All the pretty words could never truly encompass feeling. Poets one hears of always seem to think we need more words. We don’t need more words. We need understanding. Words do not always bring understanding. One could write a million words, and it could never relay the same pain the baby girl felt, and still feels. The same pain she knows all too well. If I tried you wouldn’t believe me.  
The pain that baby girl feels is like someone cracked open her ribs, the piercing ache so intense she dies. At least, she thinks she's dead. she only realizes she's not when the beast we call memory begins to pull them out. First the smaller ones. Plucked and pinched. Then the larger organs are ripped out, and the memories watch you gasp on the floor as it holds its claws over an open flame. You can only watch them glow gently, like an oily rose. Memories eyes are innocent, like a childs. Wide, and so, so deep. Everything is reflected in them.  
With a quick swipe it's opened you up again, and you can do nothing but lay there shredded, withered, bleeding, and so, so empty.

How can her body can feel so much pain, and her mind be so hopelessly empty.

She wears her pain like a second skin nobody can see, because her epidermis is not made of squamous cells, basal cells and melanocytes. Their’s is a thin shell of dead starlight. Shattered hopes, fears, dreams.  
This poet does know. This poet knows. This poet was there. This poet cried. This poet has felt fear. And betrayal. An intense love that was shattered with the bat of an eye and the gleam of a dagger. This poet has felt the longing for a ghost who they know will never come, they know nobody could ever replace, regardless if they could even find someone willing too. They know what they desperately need but the moment they feel they’ve gained an inch in a marathon…. They’re dragged back a hundred feet. It's a riptide, and there is no shore in sight.  
Only stone walls.  
Cold grey walls surround her, engulfed in the eternal silence of a dying mind.


End file.
